Player's Ultimatum (7 page)

“Keitha is cool, but I’m not sure if she’s worth being bullied.”

Robbie’s face took on a faraway expression as if remembering something from his past. “I’l get you a field seat.”

“Thanks, babe.” Yvonne stopped to kiss Robbie before moving on to the bedroom. She walked over to the bed and moaned.

“Remind me to never ask you to pick out my clothes ever again.”

He’d chosen the one pair of jeans from last month’s shopping extravaganza she’d hoped not to wear anytime soon. Her self-esteem was high, but she wasn’t so sure she was flying high enough to go around showing her crack to the world.

Yvonne eyed the low-slung skinny jeans as she put on her panties. “You do realize that crack kil s?”

“They aren’t that low, but just in case make sure you lotion your booty.” Robbie quipped, tossing her the bot le.

She needed more than lotion, she needed another derriere—preferably two sizes smal er. Yvonne snatched up the jeans and stepped into them. For good measure, she slathered the vanil a-scented lotion on her backside before zipping them.

“I just want you to make a lasting impression.”

Interwoven with spandex, the jeans were surprisingly comfortable, but they made her feel self-conscious with the way they gripped her thighs and accentuated her butt.

“You want me to make a whorish impression,” she mumbled, yanking up the zipper. “After today, the press wil christen me Queen Booty.”

“Everyone wears them low, so I doubt you’l even receive a double take.” Yvonne caught his smirk before he turned his head. “While you fix your hair and put on your face, I’m going to pack my sports bag.”

After Robbie left, Yvonne went back into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed at her bed head. “You sleep like a five year old child,” she grumbled, taking in the mess she’d made overnight.

Guided by the hairstylist’s instructions, a few passes of the straightening iron and a large paddle brush, she’d managed to tame her hair into a shiny swath that floated around her shoulders.

Satisfied with her efforts, Yvonne moved onto her makeup. Another gift from Robbie, she eyed the sleek tubes and pots resembling candy.
How did he know what colors to pick?
Makeup had always been a foreign concept and she couldn’t remember the last time she bought a tube of lipstick.

Thankful y Robbie had left her instructions and number coded every step with the particular item of makeup. Nervous but determined she dipped a brush into a pot of coco-colored eye shadow. After a few false starts, she deftly applied the color to her lids. She fol owed this with a few strokes of bronze blush to her cheeks and forehead and a light application of gold lip-gloss.

“Wel , I’l be a monkey’s uncle.” Yvonne stepped back and eyed her handy work. What looked like nothing but fancy pots of brown and gold dust had come together in a toasty blend that emphasized her dark skins’ reddish undertones, high cheek bones and big brown eyes.

Yvonne suddenly felt like she could take over the world. And in the pair of thigh high boots Robbie laid out for her, she could definitely step over it. Amazing how a lit le bit of makeup and new clothes could change her into a new woman. She felt vibrant, sexy, in control. And she wanted to show the world or at least a certain Brazilian she wasn’t a woman to be messed with.

Yvonne frowned. Who was she kidding? Every time they crossed paths, Paolo always had a way of stripping her bare and exposing her weaknesses. One of them being him.

* * * * *

Rome’s Series A teams played in the
Stadio Olympico
, a seventy-two thousand seat forum located just north of the city center. Built in 1960 for the Summer Olympics, the open-air stadium was the second largest in Italy. And probably the worst in finding your seat, Yvonne quickly surmised once again looking down at the wil call ticket Robbie arranged for her.

After walking around for more than twenty minutes, Yvonne final y gave up and sought the assistance of an usher. Thankful y, only a few awkward exchanges were needed to solicit his aide and fol ow him down several flights of steps to the stadium’s lower level and the very last row of spectator seats. Any closer, she would have been sitting on the running track circling the field.

Due to the two teams’ rivalry, the
Stadio Olympico
was filled to capacity. With one side a sea of sky blue and yellow, while the side Yvonne sat on, drowned in red and black.

During the first thirty minutes of play, Roma found themselves constantly on the defensive against Pisa who scored twice.

Losing on one’s home field must have dampened the fans’ spirit because her side of the stadium had become disturbingly sober during the first half.

Just before half time Roma caught their second wind, ral ying, they drove the bal down the pitch in a concerted effort with Robbie scoring seconds before the half-time buzzer. Never an impartial bystander at Robbie’s games, Yvonne sat on pins and needles while wishing away the longest fifteen minutes she’d ever experienced in her life.

Less than five minutes out of the locker room and against the run of play, Roma scored again. On a smart counter, Freddy MacDonald robbed a defender of the ball, sent a low pass into the center where Paolo forced his way in between two forwards and shot the bal past Pisa’s goalie. Yvonne wondered at the strange feeling of exhilaration and pride that overwhelmed her as she watched him celebrate his game tying goal with the rest of the team.

She was merely excited, nothing more, she mused.
Then why do I feel like a school girl with her first crush?

The rest of the second half was plagued by numerous fouls, several unsuccessful charges by both teams and more than one fight in the stands. Neither side looked as if they could break the other’s defenses, but then Robbie took advantage when a Pisa midfielder lost his footing. Winning the bal after a brief scuffle, he set up another teammate for a cross fol owed by a game-winning head shot into the net.

As she erupted from her seat, cheering with the rest of the Roma fans, Yvonne grinned from ear to ear. If they kept this up, the team would end up qualifying for the playoffs, practical y guaranteeing Robbie a lucrative contract. Too bad holding up her end of the bargain was looking more and more complicated as her eyes followed Paolo Saito to the sidelines.

The press granted Robbie a two week reprieve before they started courting or begging him for an interview. Robbie held out for as long as he could. But when a local rag printed a story questioning the validity of their relationship, he final y granted a fluff piece to
Arrivederci
! Magazine.

On the day of the interview, Yvonne made sure everything was perfect. She had no other choice. Robbie had been a nervous wreck the entire week and was utterly useless. Left in charge, she’d hired an army to clean the house, catered a selection of desserts and coffees. And she’d even made sure a copy of
Arrivederci
sat front and center on the living room coffee table.

Yvonne’s four-inch heels clicked a staccato rhythm over the hardwood floors as she performed a last minute inspection.

Doubting the cleanliness of an espresso spoon, she was inspecting them when the doorbel rang. Before she left the kitchen, Yvonne buzzed Robbie on the home’s intercom system. He should have been downstairs twenty minutes ago so they could go over any last minute details.

With a smile that would melt butter, Yvonne opened the heavy oak door to Helena Bracci,
Arrivederci’s
senior writer.

Perched on the front stoop, she stood no higher than Yvonne’s chest, but her bearing was regal. Noticing Yvonne standing in the doorway, she stopped berating her companion, a diminutive man toting a camera.

While Helena Bracci was elegant with expertly-styled snow white hair and dressed in a black designer knit suit, her companion was woeful y sloppy. He’d slicked his oily black hair over his balding pate. His grey cardigan sweater was stretched out of shape and the matching trousers needed hemming.

“
Signorina
Floyd?” The other woman eyed her curiously.

“Yvonne. .”

“Cal me Helena.” She placed quick pecks on both of Yvonne’s cheeks then swept past her into the house. The smal man scurried in behind her.

“This is one of my staff photographers,
Signor
Malfi,” Bracci pointed out, drawing attention to her companion. “He’ll be taking the shots for the photo spread.”

The man nodded, triggering Yvonne’s memory. Where had she seen him before?

“So where is your
noveo
?” Helena asked, pul ing Yvonne’s attention away from the photographer.

“Robbie’s getting dressed. He stayed late after this morning’s practice to work on some drills, he’l join us later. If you’d like, I can show you the first floor first.”

“
Perfetto
.” Turning to her photographer,
Signora
Bracci raised an over plucked eyebrow at him. “Malfi is that fine with you?”

Yvonne began to wonder if the man could talk since he did nothing but nod his head in acquiescence. Shrugging off the feeling she had seen him before, Yvonne instantly switched into hostess mode and ushered them through the four thousand square foot former palazzo.

On the lower level, she briefly described the furniture and art adorning the wal s. In the kitchen, she impressed Helena with her adventures with Italian cuisine. And in the study, she pointed out Robbie’s collection of rare vintage books.

By the time they accessed the second floor, Yvonne was almost running out of wind. Thankful y, Robbie chose that moment to make an appearance. Coming down the hal from the master bedroom, he was impeccably dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a white batik-printed dress shirt.

“Ahhhh,
Signor
Gutierrez. I was wondering when you would be joining us,”
Signora
Bracci purred, extending her hand to Robbie.

“Babe, we were almost finished with the tour. I just have our suite to show Helena. Would you mind doing the honors?”

“Sounds good to me.” Robbie tucked Signora Bracci’s arm under his and guided her back down the hal with Malfi trailing their heels.

Yvonne entered the bedroom last. Smiling to herself, she marveled at the romantic scene she tried so hard to create for the better part of the week. Two dozen vanilla-scented candles and a profusion of white crocuses topped every available surface.

She piled the bed with dozens of pillows and placed a pair of her bedroom slippers at the foot. On one of the nightstands, she’d set a picture of the two of them nestled in a simple silver frame.

Helena walked around the room with pursed lips. Yvonne tracked her as she crossed the room and headed toward the ‘his’

and ‘hers’ closets. Opening the door on the right, she entered Robbie’s personal closet.

Like the rest of the room, his closet was just as luxurious and filled with a wardrobe rivaling any rock stars. Helena nodded silently at the profusion of dress shirts, tailored suits, designer jeans and Italian loafers lining the wal s. His mix of the understated with the glamorous was definitely appealing. So much so, Helena requested a few pictures of Robbie in the room.

Yvonne stood back with a pleased as punch smile as Malfi shot off several rounds with Robbie in several poses. There was one of him rifling through his Italian suits, selecting a tie, and even one of him pretending to shine a pair of handmade Gucci loafers.

“While they are finishing up here, I would love to see your closet Yvonne.” The bot om fel out of Yvonne’s stomach. She’d overlooked one major detail. She hadn’t moved her clothes into the other closet.

“M-my closet,” Yvonne stammered as she fol owed behind the other woman. In the short time it took for them to cross the hal anxiety had wrapped her throat and threatened to cut off her oxygen.

“Wait!” she managed to squeak as Helena lifted a wel -manicured hand to turn the glass knob leading to the adjoining closet.

For good measure, she stepped in front of the closet door.

“My…my closet is off limits today. It’s a total mess,” Yvonne bit her lip and pretended to be embarrassed. “I tried on zil ions of outfits today in order to look my best for your magazine and I haven’t had the chance to clean up after myself.” Yvonne glanced at Robbie and shot him a ‘help me out here’ look. Catching on, he stepped forward and took a hold of Signora Bracci’s arm. “You don’t want to go in there, you might never find your way back out.” Robbie ushered her out of the suite. “I suggested we get a maid, but Yvonne insists she can handle the house on her own,” he lied. On the way out the room, he picked up the cleaning services business card off the dresser and slid it in his pocket. “How about we go downstairs and have some espresso and some tiramisu?”

“Sounds lovely,” Helena purred, patting him on the arm. “If you want, I can recommend a reputable cleaning service. They are efficient and more importantly discreet.”

Unwil ing to let Helena out of her sight, Yvonne fol owed them downstairs. She barely cleared the first step. Their party was one person short. Skidding to a halt and heart beating faster than a speeding train, she ran back upstairs.

Expecting to find Malfi rifling through her drawers, Yvonne burst into the bedroom ready to haul the lit le mole out of there.

“
Signor
Malfi,” she called out, “
andiamo
!”

At the sight of the diminutive photographer standing in the center of Robbie’s bedroom firing off several shots, Yvonne slumped against the door frame with relief.

Startled, Malfi spun around. “I was wondering if you would like a cup of espresso or some tiramisu. The head chef at La Tripoli Hotel did the catering.” Yvonne groaned. How stupid she must sound trying to entice him downstairs with caffeine and sugar.

Malfi surprised her by giving her a lit le smile revealing a set of buck teeth. Yvonne straightened. He’d taken her picture in the stadium tunnel and at The Atrium.

“Hey, don’t I know—”

“I wil have to pass on the refreshments, s
ignorina
,” he interjected. “I never eat while I’m working. Now if you would excuse me.” He inclined his head slightly then scurried off out onto the landing and down the stairs.